


pending aftermaths

by PlaguedQuillfeathers (PlagueBirbizzle)



Series: in the aether [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Deity Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Deity Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Light Angst, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Post-L'Manberg blowing up the second time, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), no beta we die like wilbur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:54:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28695783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlagueBirbizzle/pseuds/PlaguedQuillfeathers
Summary: "The old god turns his back on L’Manberg, eyes cast towards the horizon.Time and time again...It was never meant to be."❤As a nation burns before him, Philza shifts through his thoughts with his partner in chaos.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: in the aether [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103426
Comments: 10
Kudos: 77





	pending aftermaths

**Author's Note:**

> So I have no idea if this will be a running series, but I really wanted to get this thing out! I'll give titles of any mentioned gods in the end notes.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> Also, someone said I should put my socials in, so you can find me at @redwxngs on twitter or @plaguedquillfeathers on tumblr!

_Despite it all, the air tastes like creation at its purest: all ash and flame and newly born potential._

It shouldn’t - he knows this - but he breathes in deep regardless, eyes scanning the wasted landscape with interested eyes. There is something marvelous about the ruins of a nation once cursed on ruining those within it, unwittingly twisting words and metals into weapons of endless wars. So much is lost in the aftermath - in the wrath newly bestowed upon it - but it outweighs the morbid peace in his heart.

It resets the playing field, just as Imagination craved.  
  
Gone were the wooden paths and stone houses alike, now turned to ash or collapsed in pitiful heaps, sections jutting out like ashy fingers outstretched towards a dark sky. Helpless and begging, but too frail to reach a saviour, too small to make a difference and too scattered to make a stand.

Perhaps, in another life, he may have felt an ounce of pity for such a land, grown so quick and felled only quicker, but the air is rife with retribution, with _triumph._ It surges and flows like the blood within his veins, speeding up his heart and soul alike. _They’ve brought this against themselves, time and time again...It was time to clear their minds. To start anew._

The old god turns his back on L’Manberg, eyes cast towards the horizon.

_Time and time again...It was never meant to be._

Smoke billows from a nearby creator, covering the blaze below. _This reminds me of you. A blank slate, an unfinished--_

“You’re still here.”

  
The ground hums as footsteps form behind him, heavy, yet falling with purpose, but he does not turn to inspect the newcomer. There is no need to, not when the wind stills around them, as if waiting patiently for the verdict to blow once more. 

It quivers with anticipation along drawn wings, itching to whip and swing around the figure beside him. “Of course I am.”

“I’m not surprised...It’s a pretty picture, isn’t it?” A soft huff sounds as the figure stops beside him, contrasting what one may call an imposing figure standing next to a rather casual one. The old god, however, barely shifts a finger at the younger’s arrival, eyes still drawn towards the setting sun. “An avoidable pretty picture, but only slightly.” 

“It wouldn’t be a picture at all if it didn’t exist.”

  
“And yet it did...Your son made sure of it, _Philza_.”

The air blew once more, carrying the name with itself until it broke apart, scattering the sounds back into the aether. He didn’t mind it, really; the wind has been an ally far longer than most beating hearts in this realm, curling underneath his wings and pulling distant words to his ear. A trustworthy harbinger, it is, constant if one takes the time to listen.

And yet, it had failed him before, or perhaps he had closed his ears. He had been too late -- too helpless to save this nation from itself -- and as blood coats his hands and smoke rises from the crater before him, he starts to understand. “I’d never expected the world to decay as it had. These gods are as young as you, old friend, and yet they succumbed to this so quickly. Again and again...A cycle.” 

He’s started to understand it all too well. “The power...It corrupts--”

The other chuckles, voice deep. “Indeed it does...Which is why I am here, always watching--”

“--Yet you still got ensnared in its veins, beating along with it.”

“And now you know how intoxicating that pulse is, too, _Angel of Death_.”

The wind whipped once. “That’s not my name, Techno.”

“It is. You shy away from it, but it is.” Another huff came from his companion, this time following by a long yawn; as his jaw stretches, gold-engraved tusks glowing among the setting sun, it almost makes the swine-like god seem peaceful amongst the gleaming hues of enchanted armour. “We don’t get to _choose_ those names, Phil. They are _earned_. They are etched into the very aether of existence, just waiting to be unleashed.” If it were not for the spots of blood between the plates, extending all the way up to caking itself within an unruly mane and healing scars, Phil could have inked in the hypocrisy of it all. 

“I mean, they hadn’t expected _you_ to show up. Your son’s face made it clear. For all the rebellion he causes, Rebellion himself never saw that coming.” Yet, no ink could truly capture Anarchy’s true face or intentions even if it tried. That is the point, after all, as anarchy bled like an ever seeping wound, staining other’s intentions with their true colours as it raged wild within the aether. Like an unwavering blade, Techno’s words bore down on him without mercy, “You’ve surely _earned_ that one after today after balancing things out again, Life. _Serves that traitor right._ ”

Wings quiver on the old god's back, flexing in and out as silence claims them both. Phil refuses to look up at the other, jaw frozen in place.

_Oh._

_The Angel of Death, fingernails caked with soul sand and blackened with the sneering skulls of a dormant creature, hellbent on tearing apart the land that Imagination himself had once envisioned._ It is apt, he has to admit, but the pain of such an acceptance makes his soul splutter feebly, almost refusing to believe that he had been capable of such insatiable rage.

Gone were the gentle greens of a helper creating farms for a young nation and giving wisdom to those who sought it out, as those greens were now covered with the darkened plates of armour, red pulsing through the cracks of the chestplate. A flipped switch, or the end of a cycle, he is not sure.

They all forgot that death is not the opposite of life, but an intertwining current on the same endless stream.

He’d forgotten how easy it was to drown in it, choking and spluttering until it became right to float and follow the stream. 

It makes sense, cementing itself further in the silence, and it makes Phil scowl.

The expression does not go unnoticed, not with Anarchy’s presence. The Blood God shifts uncomfortably, head turning to watch the winged god with apologetic eyes. Well, Phil hopes the tone matches the gaze, as the shadow of his helmet obstructs the latter from view, shadows revealing just as much of the ‘Blade as he usually wished for. Once his gaze drops to the god’s clenched, yet shaking fists, he knows the apology is genuine. “I’m sorry...I shouldn’t have said that.” The words are clumsy on his lips, far more tentative than anything they’d offered in each other’s presence.

_That’s new. That’s dangerous._

It’s wrong.

The Blood God is supposed to see all as their true selves -- to be infallible by nature -- but Philza knew otherwise, even if the young god kept the facade up. He’s just as cracked as the rest of them, fighting betrayal and self-worth alike. Philza had heard them loud and clear from his perch on the obsidian grid in the sky, mouths foaming as they tried to justify their actions.

The infallible god had many cracks to fill. 

_It had reminded him painfully of a broken god within a bunker, essence so cracked that corrupted desire had managed to weave itself inside him. In the end, such dreams had it cost him his will to live after said desire was obtained. Now, the screams and wails among a breaking nation had only wound themselves into that gods dying melody, poisoning what was an already fragile stream of intertwined souls, rippling around the hands of corrupted desires._

Wilbur had always had his way with words, weaving them to his advantage. It made sense that such corruption would consume him first.

The god of Life could only hope that he was the last. “I understand...You’re right.”

The great Technoblade, for all the blood and fur and metal of a warrior, quivers once the silence settles in once again, but bodily turns once Phil spoke, visibly relaxing under what one can only assume as the criticism of the voices within him. 

Philza can only hope that they had calmed at his words.

They need calm for what comes next. 

“This nation...It had to leave, no matter the cost, but we’ve made many enemies in the process, old friend.” He turns his gaze back to the ruins below, eyes zeroing in on a stray wolfdog making its way through the rubble. 

Techno’s gaze briefly follows the dog as well, causing Phil to wonder if it was one of his hounds, only for the god to look away, uninterested. 

Phil hoped it survived.

For a moment, he remembers the endless stream of slaughtered souls pulling themselves towards him and seeking refuge in outstretched arms, soon burrowing right into the heart embedded in his chest. Their deaths had only fueled him -- just as the chaos and blood had fueled his companion -- but there had been another.

It seems that there has always been another when this nation wished to fall. _Desire always had endless fuel these days._ “It would be wise to maintain our distance from everyone. As many as we can.”  
  
“Even him?”  
  
Their gazes met, both searching out a response in the other, only for the old god to continue speaking. Whatever they had found, it is enough to steer them down the same path of thought. 

“Even him.”

Despite their brief alliance, there is still something painfully _wrong_ with the god of desire.

Philza didn’t like that.

Time, however, had seemed to send his work towards them, as the sun soon set on their place in the sky. Soon, the creatures of the night will make their appearance, giving the gods a less casual journey home. There’s still much to be said, as the wind continued its vigil instead of carrying their voices beyond their ears alone, but nothing can be sorted in a night. 

Nothing should be sorted out in a night.

The dust has barely settled on the nation doomed to break apart.

“We can discuss more once we are home.” Technoblade seemingly read the others intention, hefting up the large sword on his person and sheathing it. There would be use for it later, preferably embedded in the skull of an enemy, but it could rest for the time being. “But Phil-- Philza...” His pause is lengthy, staring down at his friend with an unreadable expression.

Silence.

Scarred hands rest themselves on his shoulder, squeezing slightly. “What we did...It will be worth it in the end. I promise.”

_It has to be._ A sickening desire for that to be so creeps into his mind, twisting and smiling and-- _Oh Aether, it has to be._

One day, the scales will be level once more.

“I promise that, too, mate.”

Feathers shift along his back, unfolding and fanning out like night before them, before another set starts its process, then another. If the day had held on any longer, he is quite sure the first pair alone would have cast a shadow well over the larger craters below, but the night has made them a lot less visible. 

There is no need to cause any more of a fuss to weary travellers. 

Techno surveys the man before him, as still as any statue, before nodding his head. “It will be. I’ll see you back home”

Philza doesn’t respond -- he doesn’t need to, really -- but with one single wing beat, throwing dust and ash into the air, the god is gone.

When the dust settles, the other god has already made his leave. 

L’Manberg is quiet - an ellipsis etched into the land once more.

\--♥--

Within a crater, a fractured soul watches, glassy eyes confused, but determined.

Within his hand, rests a clump of blue wool, a comfort.

He does not know why these gods weep -- why they fight and bleed -- for the danger has been slain ( _it was slain oh so long ago)_ but he tries to think. Oh, how he tries to understand.

The nation is broken, beaten, and yet he stays, impossibly tethered to an idea that is not truly his own. Or perhaps it is? 

_Has the problem not been slain?_

He isn’t sure.

He doesn’t want to be sure, really.

It hurts.

“I don’t want to remember.” 

The mumble, fearful, falls on dead ears alone, but his mind latches on with a vengeance. There is no one around for him to distract anymore.

His heart has always been searching for purpose. 

His fractured heart feels dangerous.

“Please don’t make me remember…”

But he has to -- _he has to remember --_ otherwise the world will crumble.

He can't let it crumble. Not yet.

_Never._

The ghost breathes out -- a force of habit -- and imagines what can be done.

The air shifts.

He breathes in.

_Despite it all, the air still tastes like creation at its purest: all ash and flame and newly born potential._

The aether moves with him.

**Author's Note:**

>   * **Philza:** _God of Life and Death_ \- One of the oldest gods present. Father to Wilbur and Tommy. Pseudo-Father/Mentor to Technoblade. 
>   * **Technoblade:** _God of Anarchy_ \- AKA The Blood God. Created in the second generation of gods.
>   * **Wilbur:** _God of Imagination_ \- Deceased. Son of Philza. Created in the second generation of gods.
>   * **Tommy:** _God of Rebellion_ \- Son of Philza. Created in the third generation of gods. One of the youngest gods present.
>   * **Dream:** _God of Desires_ \- One of the oldest gods present. [Information redacted] ;)
> 



End file.
